Žodžiai dainai: The Captain Beefheart. 81 Poop Hatch.

My eyes are burnt and bleeding and all that looks like a monkey on a silver bar ?
big poop hatch with a cotton hatch ? hatch holes that the light shows in and the light shows out ?
and the little red fence ?
and the wire and the wood ?
and the barbs and the berries ?
and the tires and the bottles and the caruponrims ?
and the heat swims on its fenders and the dust collects and the rust of autumn surrenders into gold ?
trumpet poop on the ground with peanuts its bell was blocking an ant?s vision ?
and the mice played in its air holes and valves ?
a ladybug crawled off its mouthpiece standing out red and blacked its wings and blew off to a flower ?
its hum heard just above the ground ?
black dots were hung in what turned out to be an olive tree that originally held a tree house full of a building with one small window ?
birds and broken glass and tiny bits of newspaper ?
"My sun is free from the window," said the god the green dabbers ?
rice wires mouse tins and milk muffins ?
cereal and stone ?
matches and masks and mace and clubs ?
and splintered shaft light intrigues a cricket on a dust jeweled penlet ?
cobwebs collect down plaster run into a hole and find collected glass that drinks the reflection of midday afternoon midway between telegraph lines ?
a silver wing ? a cloud ? a rumbling of a cloud ?
a crowd of various violins strum from next door through my wall into my ear obviously artificial ?
neighbors laugh through sandwiches ?
Harlem babies ? their stomachs explode into roars ?
their eyes shiny with starvation ?
spreckled hula dance on my phonograph ?
my door rattles windy ?
sand wears my rug shoe and taps on the unheard finish of an hourglass I cannot hear ?
a typical musician?s nest of thoughts filter through dust speakers ?
"Why don?t you go home? Oh Blobby, are you great," exclaims two lips in some jumbled rock ?n? roll tune and wears a spot I cannot scratch ?
the surface of a friend ?
this high book a friend laid on me ?
on the couch relaxing in the corner behind a still life pond with plenty of bugs and lily pads slurred in mud banks and boulders tin cans and raisins warped by thought ?
strain on the spoon like a wheat check ? check Bif ? cotton popping out of his sleeve ?
poop hatch open ? big poop hatch with a cotton hatch ? hatch holes ? got to pick up the horns ?
but the head won?t move until it walks